


Lessons

by avulgaris



Series: Lessons-verse [1]
Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Bad guys, F/M, Zombies, beth singing, daryl mouthing off, poor squirrels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1302850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avulgaris/pseuds/avulgaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Daryl Dixon taught Beth Greene, and what she taught him: a series of ever-lengthening vignettes. </p><p>A/N: I wrote this post-4x12 (Still) before seeing 4x13 (Alone).  So, AU with happy coincidences.  Rated for language, mostly.  Starts pretty silly and light-hearted and evolves into something more angsty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. bowhunting

A week later, Daryl showed her how to use the crossbow for real.

The day was unseasonably muggy and hot, and the Walkers smelled even worse than they'd been smelling since the summer ended.  Beth shuddered all the way to her toes as she pulled her knife from a skull with a sucking snick, black gore splattering wetly on her shirt.  Good Lord, but it stank. 

She moved gingerly away, arms stiff and face drawn in disgust, to where Daryl was pulling arrows from his corpses. 

"Y'know, I don't even care anymore that it's gonna be winter soon and I'll be like to shiver right outta my clothes." She let Daryl wipe her hands off and clean the blade on some poor piece of flannel he'd found. "'Cause at least the Walkers'll smell less, y'know?" 

He managed a vague grunt of agreement.  Daryl still didn't talk much since they'd burned the house down, but Beth didn't mind. 

"Think I need a way to kill from afar, like you.  It's nasty gettin' all near 'em. Not to mention it's real hard on my clothes. This is the third shirt in as many days, I'm pretty sure." 

"Gettin' good with that knife, though." Daryl crouched to clean up the arrows. 

"Yeah, but… that smell? The… guts'n brains on me?" 

He twitched a little, squinting off into the trees.  He didn't meet her eyes as he mused, "Guess I could teach you to use the bow. Could find you one or somethin’.” His voice trailed off into a vague mumble that was Daryl thinking aloud, “If we circled back towards Woodbury, try scavengin' some caches—should be quieter there now." 

Beth forced down a surprised grin.  The man was prone to skittishness as bad as Nervous Nelly's when it came to interacting all normal with another person... not to mention he was loathe to suggest doing anything other than pure surviving.  She tried to be casual.  "Think I can even nock it, though? D'they make girl ones?" 

He shrugged indifferently, but he was eying her arms with a speculative squint.  

She grinned for real. "Y'sure you can teach me somethin' without moonshine, Mr. Dixon?" 

Beth knew good-hearted teasing got him nervous, and sure enough his eyes darted to the ground. 

"Dunno," Daryl admitted. "Never taught anyone the bow before—never was taught myself, t'be honest." 

"My French teacher said that y'learn best by teachin'."

"Y'speak French?" He looked up at her, curious.

Beth was mortified to feel herself flush. "Well, not real good, but… some.  I guess."

"Say somethin'."

"Um… Bonjour? Bonjour, Monsieur Dixon?"

He chuckled, standing. "That sounds dumb as fuck.  And even I know bonjour." His accent was, predictably, atrocious.

"Tu manges des écureuils."  How she remembered the word for squirrel, she had no earthly idea.

Daryl squinted at her suspiciously. "You callin' me somethin' bad?"

"No," she grinned. "Nothin' bad.  What bad thing could be said about you?"

He looked away, uneasy with her again. "Plenty, I reckon.  C'mere."

She came forward as he propped the crossbow on the ground to cock it, biceps flexing easily as he drew back the string with a grunt. 

"Here." He came up beside her, handing her the bow. His voice was quiet, gone all hunterly as if there was a real deer through the brush, ready to spook. "Trigger with your right hand, hold it with your left.  Yeh, like that."

"It's heavy," Beth whispered, squinting down the shaft of the arrow.

"Yeah. Compound bows're lighter, but y'gotta hold more weight.  With this, once you got it cocked, y'just aim—Here, hold up." Daryl stalked over to a corpse and tore off some bloody piece of it's clothing. He smeared the gore on a tree some ten yards from where Beth stood, her arms just starting to shake. He trotted back to her and peered over her shoulder. "Aim at that mark.  Shoot like y'would a rifle."  

The first arrow missed the tree, but only just.  Beth pouted. "Stupid tree.  Must'a moved." 

Daryl chuckled in her ear. "Yeah—sneaky sumbitch, that oak.  Here, cock it like this, with your boot. Now pull back." 

"Oh, my Lord," Beth groaned, bracing the bow's stirrup as she tried to draw back the string. She could only get it about halfway before her arms shook too hard and her fingertips went numb. "I—uhhn, I can't—" 

"Gonna get some guns if you keep this up, girl." 

She panted, "You teasin' me, Mr. Dixon?" 

"Nah." Daryl scratched at his head. "Yeah, don't got a crank or nothin'. Here." He took the bow and drew it for her.  "Just practice shootin'."  

She hit the tree the second time, if not the smear of Walker guts. "Aw, yeah!"

  

**

*

 

A/N: Manually cocking a hunting crossbow is a bit like dead-lifting 150 lbs.  (Which was totally confirmed by our new buddy Joe in 4x13.  Now we know why Daryl’s got them guns.)


	2. how to dress like a Dixon

"Lord, but this still stinks somethin' awful." Beth glanced down at her shirt and wrinkled her nose.  "Wish I'd kept one of my tanks."

Daryl walked ahead of her, eyes darting through the trees.  Squirrel-hunting, she figured.  They'd left the massacred Walkers some three miles back and had only been eating wild grapes and blackberries all day.  The thought of meat had her tummy rumbling in happy expectation. 

"D’you have an extra one?  Like, even your button-up'd do." Beth eyed the dirty, gray fabric tied around his hips. 

"Pretty sure it stinks as much, 'f not more." 

"Rather smell like you than sun-baked geek brains." 

Daryl stopped and peered at her over his shoulder, eyes tracking down to the gummy smear on her stomach. She tried to ignore how the wet of it touched her skin.  She really didn't want to puke, not with how scarce food was. 

"Why ain't you got a jacket or somethin'?" 

"I dunno, why ain't you gotta map?" she sassed. 

"Y'd get hot." 

She shrugged, gesturing to the yuck on her shirt.  "Better'n this." 

Daryl sighed, dropped his crossbow to the ground, and pulled off his leather vest. 

Beth squeaked, "I can't wear that!  I don't have a—" 

"I can." He pulled off his torn up under shirt, balled it up and tossed it to her. "That ain't got sleeves. Can't've you dyin' of heatstroke." He squinted up at the white, humid sky, and shrugged back into his vest. "Christ, it's worse'n a mother _fuck_ out here." 

Beth's token protest had died in her throat when she’d caught sight of the ridged scars across the back of his shoulders; those weren't from bar fights or tumbling down the flatrocks back at the farm.  To distract herself, she glanced instead at the tattoos inked here and there across his chest.  "Yeah. Yeah, all right. Thanks."  She turned away and gingerly cut her tee shirt off with her knife.  She slipped on Daryl's, plucking any undone buttons into their holes to preserve what little modesty she had in a man's sleeveless shirt and no bra underneath. 

The shirt was damp with his sweat, and it did smell pretty awful.  Beth wrinkled her nose. But it stank of living things, a living man. She swung on her backpack. "Guess I'm a real redneck now, huh?" 

Daryl didn't reply, his bow raised and cocked as he watched the trees above them. 

Beth stilled. 

The bow twanged, and with a snick a gray squirrel fell from the canopy a few yards away. As he picked it up, Daryl glanced at her with a tiny, proud grin, "That's a fat 'un." 

His eyes quickly dropped back to the ground as he pulled the arrow free. 

Beth thought he was looking almost sunburnt, but maybe it only seemed that way 'cause his chest wasn't tanned as dark as the rest of him.

  

**

*


	3. how to cuss like a Dixon

"Pussy." 

Beth's cheeks turned pink as she declared, " _Pussy_." 

"Use it in a sentence." 

"A Daryl Dixon sentence?" 

"Yeh. Sure." 

They were walking down the center of a county road, toward what Daryl claimed was a one-street town, some thirty miles from Woodbury and her promised crossbow.  (And hopefully, real hopefully, some sign of their people.  She tried not to think about them, tried to push her dreads and hopes aside, but some days it was harder to keep focused on what was here and now—her and Daryl, the woods or road, and surviving.)  

Beth declared with an exaggerated twang, "I ain't'nah pussy, bitch." 

Daryl laughed aloud, teeth glinting. "Hell yeah, I ain't.  Ain't no bitch, neither." 

"Praise be," Beth caroled, twirling some late-season little sunflowers they'd found. She'd snugged some in her hair and unsuccessfully tried to tuck one behind Daryl's ear.  "So… Technically, can a girl even be a pussy?" 

Daryl paused, swaying on one boot mid-stride. "Uh." 

Beth strolled past him. "I mean, a boy can _kinda_ be a bitch… But, like, if you _have_ a pussy, can you—" She paused, glancing at him curiously. Daryl's eyes were locked on the ground and his cheeks were getting a little rosy, and Beth giggled. "Are you flustered, Daryl Dixon?  Is little ol' Bethy Greene _embarrassin'_ you? How about I teach _you_ a word… _va-gi-na_." 

His skin flamed clear down his neck, and Beth just about died. "Shut th'fuck up," he snarled with a half-hearted shove to her shoulder. 

Beth soothed, "Teach me somethin' else, then." 

"Seems y'know enough." 

"C'mon." 

"I dunno. Motherfucker." 

" _Motherfucker,"_ she sing-songed, and that got him almost grinning again.  "Gosh darn motherfuckin' pussy.  I already know these, though." 

"Yeah? Well, fuck you, then." 

"Hell yeah," Beth retorted saucily before flushing, hoping he didn't think she meant— 

But Daryl only snorted, laughter crinkling the skin at the corners of his eyes. He huffed, “Sounds all cute, comin’ from you. What would yer daddy say?” His face abruptly fell a little, eyes darting away. 

Beth’s father’d had strong opinions about cussing.  She tried to smile at the recollection despite how much it made her heart hurt. "My… my dad always said that usin' the Lord's name in vain was the worst. Worse'n fuck and shit and stuff. You ever… you ever went t'church?" 

"Nah." 

Beth nodded. "I sang in the choir. Served ice tea after, watched the little kids… We had these speakers, y'know, so we could hear the sermons in the nursery.  Seems almost stupid now, sometimes," she admitted softly. 

He made some small noise. 

"I mean, what folks talked about.  Even my momma… on how t'be a good Christian—the _not_ cussin’. It's just—it all means nothin’ now.  Who cares, y'know? None'a that… none of it means _shit_ anymore.  Don't kill, don't steal… but what if it’s your life? Your family’s life? Be good to thy neighbor, don't cuss, don't do it b'fore marriage, listen to your momma and your daddy and your preacher.  But the world ended anyway. The Governor still came, Lori still died, Dad…" Tears prickled in Beth's eyes and she tried to blink them away.  Her father had always tried to make scripture meaningful back at the prison, had always tried to teach her what it all meant now. "D'you… d'you believe in God?" 

He frowned uncomfortably. "Dunno.  Never had much reason to, I guess." 

Beth nodded. Her eyes slipped across his shoulders, thinking of the scars under the cotton and leather and stitched-on wings.  It made her heart even more sore. "I think I do.  I want to, y'know?  Things just… they're… hard.  It's hard." 

"Things're fucked-upper'n shit, is what they are.” His eyes suddenly brightened and narrowed. “Speakin' of, look.  Got company." 

A male Walker had shuffled from the woods ahead of them, one arm reaching as it rasped and snarled pathetically.  

Beth sighed, oddly relieved with the distraction—sometimes, harder was simpler. "Think there're more?" 

"Dunno. Here." He handed her the crossbow.  

"It's too far—" 

"Y'wanted far." 

"I can't… Fine." Beth shook her head and dropped the bow to the ground, gritting her teeth as she tried in vain to cock it. Daryl bent with his arms either side of her and hauled back on the string, almost knocking her over with the force it took against her leg. She jerked back into his chest as her arms trembled. 

The first arrow hit the Walker in the gut, the next in its jaw.  Beth's arms were shaking hard as she and Daryl cocked the third arrow, and she waited as he stalked forward to knock the Walker back a few paces. 

He darted out of the way, batting its grasping hands away. "Go on.  Not at me!" 

The arrow went wide, hitting a tree.  _"_ Mother _frick_!" she cussed in frustration, heart starting to pound with adrenaline as the Walker weaved within kicking distance. Some kind of instinct reared up in her, and Beth dropped the crossbow and yanked out her knife, shoving the Walker to the ground and braining it with the blade. 

Daryl sidled up next to her as she squatted, panting. 

"S-sorry," she gasped, wiping her arm across her face. "I just—it felt too close. An' I can't… I jus'… jus' didn't think." 

"Nah, y'did all right.  Hit the teeth outta it." Daryl yanked the arrows free and scratched his nose. "Damn close." 

"There's no darn way I could get th'string up.  Least I can hold my knife by myself," Beth panted. "Maybe I just need back up shirts, not some crossbow." 

He squinted at her. "Could find a crank. Though… not a squirt of geek juice on you this time." 

"Thank God. This is a real favorite'a mine, y'know," she said wryly, gesturing to the too-large tee shirt they'd found for her in a crossroads bar, _Southern Pride_ emblazoned across the front, a eight-point set of antlers across the back.   

Daryl's teeth flashed for a moment, his eyes cast down.

 

**

*

 

A/N: I totally can’t take credit for “fucked-upper’n shit.” That’s some real good cussin’, right there.

 


	4. how to piss in a sink

In the next town, they found some apple trees in the yard of an empty house.  The smell of fermented juice from the fallen fruit had drawn bees from all around, and the air was sweet with rot and booze and the humming of tiny wings.  After collecting enough ripe ones for themselves and dancing around getting stung, the promise of a couch (a _bed_ ), was enough to coax them inside the house.  Beth found some honest-to-God cinnamon in the cupboard, and so they feasted. 

"So… were you, like, into sports? Before." 

Daryl chewed for a while, getting a familiar ornery look on his face.  But he answered anyway, "Nah.  I mean, I watched football an' shit. But didn't play or whatever." 

Beth wondered idly, for a second, if folks in Carl and Judith's generation would even know the rules of football and basketball.  "I always wanted t'be a cheerleader, but my dad wouldn't let me. Didn't approve of the short skirts much, I guess." 

"You one'a those girls, huh?" Daryl smirked. 

"Hey now. Jus' said I wasn't. My two best friends, Sadie Hawkins and Roseanne Grady were, though.  Lord," Beth laughed shortly. "That feels like a hundred years ago." The idle thought that they were probably dead didn’t even hurt—not like thoughts of Rick and Sasha and Tyreese hurt, and they weren’t even kin. 

They rigged up some jingly bits of cutlery to the door and made sure things were locked up before they holed up in an upstairs bedroom.  Beth slid her cowgirl boots off and burrowed under the dusty sheets of the double bed with a long, soft sigh. 

"I'll keep watch a little longer," Daryl said lowly, and the next thing Beth knew, she was opening her eyes to the blue half-light before morning. 

Daryl was on his back a foot or so from her, out cold on top of the blankets, boots still on, right hand resting over the Bowie knife on his chest. 

Beth yawned and stared at him; he looked a lot younger in sleep, his brow all smoothed out. She kind of had to pee, but knew getting up would wake him.  So, she curled up again, scooting closer to how warm he was, and slept a little more. 

It was past dawn when she woke again; Daryl was still sleeping. 

She slipped on her boots and investigated the ensuite bathroom.  It had a rusty claw foot tub and free-standing sink, toiletries in disarray.  She nudged the toilet seat up with the toe of her boot and wrinkled her nose; it smelled pretty awful. 

Daryl was sitting up and rubbing his face when she came back into the room.  He stretched his arms over his head with a groan, the joints cracking. "Shiiit," he sighed.  "You sleep a'right?" 

"Like a baby." Which, wasn’t true at all, Beth knew; but, _like the dead_ was less so. "You?" 

"Mm." Somehow he looked more exhausted than the day before. 

"I gotta pee, but the toilet's all backed up and gross.  Maybe outside…?" It was a testament to her weeks with him in the bush that she didn't balk one bit at discussing needing to pee. He must've seen her white butt a hundred times by now, when the herds were thicker and it was too dangerous to split up. 

"You try the sink?" 

"What, and crouch on the edges? Ain't gotta real counter, and I ain't gotta… a, y'know." She gestured lengthwise between her legs. 

"Y'don't say," he grumbled. Then, when she didn't move, he growled, all cranky, "What, I gotta potty train you? Use the Goddamn tub or somethin'." 

Beth rolled her eyes. "Your mouth is dirtier than a Walker's."  But she went back to the tub, not even bothering to shut the door. 

He was gone when she came out.  

For breakfast, they ate apples and some stale rounds of Ritz crackers Daryl'd found buried in a cupboard. 

"Maybe we could… stay here. Just a few days, catch up on sleep, maybe find some water to wash up with.  Some of the houses nearby might have gardens that deer haven't gotten at."   

Daryl glanced over at her and then away before nodding, coring another apple with his little butterfly knife.

  

**

*

 

 


	5. being real quiet

They learned, a week or so later, that they weren't alone on the roads between those backwater towns, and that Beth's golden, dirty hair attracted things worse than Walkers. 

"Well, well, well. What've we here?" 

Beth whirled from foraging the general store's shelves.  She'd heard the crunch of a man's boots over the broken glass behind her, but the sound had the easy rhythm of a living human.  She'd thought it was Daryl. 

 _Course it weren't. He'd be quiet._  

The man had on a leather vest and a low-slung pistol on one hip and a hunting knife on the other, a cowboy hat on his head over greasy, blond hair.  He was chewing on a stalk of grass gone to seed, eyes sliding down her. 

"Here you are, pretty as a picture, prettier than we thought.  Southern Pride, that's for God _damn_ sure. Y'can't be all alone, girl like you?" 

"Like what?" she whispered, shuffling slowly backwards and away from him. 

"Not all locked up behind walls in sanctuary.  Who you runnin' with? My boys and I ain't had new company in a while, could take y'all with us.  Take good care’a you." 

"I'm… I'm fine, thanks.  I'm all right." 

He tilted his head. "Don't look all right. Look scared." 

"I ain't scared," Beth slid backwards down the aisles.  "I'm all right alone." 

"We'd keep you safe. We know how to treat a lady—an' we know how the geeks die, how to get by. Keep y'fed." 

An idea lit in her head, and Beth announced loudly, "Yeah, well I know how they die, too." She bumped into a shelf and a tray of dusty bottle openers and novelty keychains fell onto the floor with a clatter. "Gotta knife and everythin'." 

He chuckled. "You're real cute, sweetheart.  Why you runnin' from me? Think I'm’a hurt you?" 

"I think you'd try.” 

He didn't deny the accusation, and Beth's heart started to pound. 

The stranger shook his head. "Y'know, you need our help right bad—yer yellin' too loud. The geeks come to sound, y'know. Sound an' smells an' folks dying." 

As if on cue, she heard it; the familiar dragging shuffle of nerve-rotted feet, the hungry, gaspy snarls. 

"Well, maybe it's the geeks I run with." 

His hand jerked forward suspiciously even as Beth kicked open the storage door behind her. Blood roared in her ears as she fell into a crouch, shoving the Walker past herself and scurrying into the half-dark of the store-room as the stranger's pistol went off.  There were strangled, coarse gasps and a heavy thump. 

Beth palmed her Bowie knife and hid in the shadows under a desk, anticipating the stranger's boot tread and the slimy persuasion of his voice.  _Come out, come out, little lady_ … 

Her brain coldly began to plan; she thought of hamstringing him through his jeans or burying her knife up into his gut, thought of screaming until she filled the room with Walkers and he used up all his bullets, screaming until Daryl heard her, thought of waiting until the stranger was undoing his belt before… 

But there was only silence. 

When a shadow moved in Beth’s peripheral vision, a cold sweat broke down her back.  Before she could get her bearings, the vague light flickering in from the store was blocked by a man's broad shoulders as he crouched directly in front of her. 

"Yer breathin' too loud." 

Relief flooded through her, and Beth collapsed onto her butt.  For a moment, her eyes burned and she almost cried. "Yeah, well you're _talkin'_ too loud." 

"Shhhh. There're others—in the road.  Heard 'em talkin' about seein' a blonde girl near here—must'a seen us, or you. Thought somethin’ was followin’ us." She felt Daryl's fingers glance across her knee. "That sumbitch hurt you?" 

"No. Is he…?" 

"Won't wake up no Walker, that's for damn sure." 

Beth's stomach turned over.  Gritting her teeth, she whispered, "What d'we do?  Can they track us? Should we… should we k-kill them?" 

She could see the glint of Daryl's eyes as he stared at her for a long few seconds. He was entirely still. "… Dunno. Maybe.  Think we should?" His voice was a bare, menacing rasp. 

It scared her. Beth bit her lip, squeezing her hands around the handle of her knife.  Her previous thoughts of gutting the stranger flitted through her mind again, and she felt ill.  "I don't…don't know how to…" 

Daryl's voice was a growl. "You won't have to." His hand, warm and rough-skinned, wrapped around her arm.  With a strange gentleness, he tugged her from her hideout. "C'mon. They'll be lookin' for that hick piece'a shit." 

She mimicked the way he walked, slinking from the room at his back. 

The stranger and the Walker were heaped, dead, on the floor of the store.  Blood pooled across the dirty linoleum. 

Beth sidled up close to Daryl's back, left hand twisting in the leather and feathers of his vest. She wondered on a barely there breath, "They gotta car?" 

He shook his head once, squinting down his crossbow. 

Beth pulled his vest to stop his forward stalk, and then slipped over to the stranger's body. Blood covered one half of his face where an arrow must have gone directly through his eye. Beth forced her hands not to tremble as she brought her buck knife down on his neck in mimicry of a Walker's ravaging bite. The stranger's blood sluggishly seeped from the wound, already clotted and dark.  

 _Maybe they're stupid. Hopefully._  

When she looked up, Daryl was watching her with slitted eyes. 

Beth bit her lip, then pointed to the dead man's knife.  

Daryl paused a long moment before shaking his head and jerking it sideways, and she followed. 

It was nearing sunset, now, and Beth could hear living voices as they slipped down the street and into an overgrown garden, the purple joe pye weeds blooming higher than her head. They crouched near some trashcans, and Beth watched the road between the boards of the fence. 

Daryl moved silently to the back gate of the yard, opening it and motioning for her to follow. Beth went, grabbing two heavy steak tomatoes as she passed. 

He took them deep into the woods, north and west, away from the roads and any folks who'd been following them.  Away from Woodbury, from the prison, from everything. 

As they went, Beth thought of the stranger, wondered who he'd been and why evil bubbled up in him but not all men (not _Daryl_ ) when there were no laws to check it.  Using her old eyes, those of Beth Greene, junior at MCHS, she'd say that the stranger and Daryl were the same kind of man, were men unlike her dad or Shawn or Otis or Rick.  She remembered hunters from up north in their dirty pick-up trucks, buck deer tied in the bed, men like Merle Dixon on his bike, all filthy-mouthed and rude and rough, hovering at the edges of polite society.  She'd seen them and avoided their eyes.  

But the world ending had stripped everything away, from what seemed to be to what was. Kept the outside the same—dirtier, maybe. Harder.  But nothing was the same at all, not when killing and stealing were sometime necessities—you could ‘cause you had to or you could ‘cause you _could_. 

The stranger might have raped her.  And Daryl killed him for it. 

Beth ran close and quiet at his heels, air burning inside her chest.

 

**

*

 

 


	6. how to sing a love song

It was by pure luck or some holy grace that they stumbled upon farmed land two days later. 

The nights were cold now, and though they'd gotten lighters, neither of them wanted to risk a fire. They'd spent that first night up under a pine's low-falling branches, shoulder to shoulder, sap and needles sticking to their butts and hands. It smelled all right though, better than Walkers and better than her own sweat and Daryl's leather, which he'd wrapped around her.  Despite the deep quiet of the forest, of having no road and no plan, Beth felt safer. She reckoned Daryl knew his way about the woods of Georgia better than those strangers in the town, if only 'cause she'd not met anyone who walked over dried leaves as silent as he could. 

Still, the sight of the farmhouse was an aching relief.  It was small, plank-sided and tin-roofed, tucked into a little hollow between two hills.  It was dusk when they reached it, and the occasional, optimistic if ill-seasoned bullfrog filled the soft quiet of the evening with its croaks.  It sounded like home. 

"Might got a springhouse, nestled in like that," Beth whispered hopefully.  She pulled out her knife, already fanning out to Daryl's right to cover the ground as they approached.  

They didn't find any Walkers, though—just a man's corpse, mostly bones and all gnawed up on his porch swing, a gunshot hole through his skull. 

Beth's heart ached a moment.   

"Looks more like coons and foxes got at the poor bastard, rather'n geeks.  And his gun's still here," Daryl mumbled as he slipped the pistol into his belt.  He lifted his bow and peered into the house. "Might be food too, then." 

They did find food—tin cans of soup and green beans and peas, ginger ale, coffee, stale crackers and pasta, and enough salt that Beth already started planning squirrel and rabbit jerky. There was beer and a bottle of Wild Turkey that made Daryl whoop softly in delight. 

Beth gasped herself when they found a guitar in the living room. 

Later, she tuned it as Daryl plucked green beans from his second extra-large Jolly Green Giant tin. 

"Think it's safe to play?" 

He saluted her with his fork and then grabbed the bottle of whiskey, settling back onto the couch in a satisfied sprawl. 

“‘S not a classic, but…” Beth smiled and strummed out a chord with an old bone pick. She crooned, "We were both young when I first saw you, close my eyes and the flashback starts… I’m standing there, on a balcony in that summer air…" 

On she sang, and her body sank into the singing, tension leaking out her arms and belly until she felt soft—newer.  It felt like summer break again, like riding lessons with Sadie and talking about boys. Like a bath.  She smiled, "… Take me somewhere we can be alone. I'll be waiting, all that's left t'do is run.  You be the prince, I'll be your princess, and it's a love story, baby, just say, yes… And I sneak through the garden to see you, keep quiet 'cause we're dead if they know—" 

Her voice tripped, and she almost lost the thread of the lyrics a moment, adding in some chords to catch herself.  Her eyes met Daryl's. 

"So close your eyes…" Beth closed hers quickly, and the music caught her up in its currents again. "An' escape this town for a while, ohhh." 

When she finished the song, trailing off on the final "you," she felt tipsy, like they’d found more moonshine, the vibrations humming through her body. She wanted to laugh and cry and dance.  She sighed, instead. 

"Who was that?" Daryl's voice was low. 

"Taylor Swift." 

"Huh." 

Beth's eyes were still closed. "I used to listen to it on repeat, dreaming of Jimmy or this boy named Wyatt, my boyfriend before—dreamed of drivin' down some highway, maybe up to Nashville, wind in my hair, all in love.  Imagined stoppin' some place, kissin' and kissin’… going all the way in the back seat, him dyin' for me."  Her eyes snapped open. "I mean, dyin' with desire, not _dyin'_ dyin'." 

But the spell on her was broken, all from having to clarify the kind of death she meant. Beth’s heart sank. Suddenly, the lyrics felt different, felt heavier.  Rewritten. The room around her—full of a dead man’s things, his unrecorded memories, in a world gone hard and feral. 

_Don't be afraid, we'll make it out of this mess… it's a love story, baby._

Beth blinked rapidly, swallowing the bitter threat of tears. _Stop.  It's just a song, not like someone got bit and died. Just a song._  

Daryl was staring moodily into the whiskey's gold.  He said after some long moments, "Done it a few times m'self, in the back seat of a car." 

Beth's breath caught. Desperate to escape her thoughts, she blurted, "Yeah?  Is… is it nice?"

"Not as pretty as you'd think. Gear shift or some shit diggin' into somethin'. T'be honest…" he trailed off, lips thinning.  "T'be honest, was always pretty damn wasted whenever…" He shrugged. 

The admission about made Beth's heart stop. "Oh. That must'a… sucked, I guess." 

He huffed out a dark chuckle, "Sure that's what they thought." 

"No, I mean… um. I mean, that sucks for you.  That… did you never have a steady girlfriend? Been in love?" 

"Not really, nah." He looked uncomfortable, brows lowering. 

“Well,” Beth tried, voice gentle and even and careful, "That's too bad.  I'd've thought you would've.  I mean, I know y'said that you kinda just… followed your brother around an' all, but…" Daryl was, like, a catch, right? He was fearless and self-sufficient and probably all right looking when he'd had a shower and a hair cut.  Then she thought of the stranger in the general store, and how they looked mostly the same on the outside, and Beth quickly added, "You're nice, and real good with your bow." 

His look was mocking. "That what you were lookin' for?  Good little girl like you?  A redneck who's good with a damn bow?" 

 _Like me?_ "I. No.  But."  She shrugged. "You make your own arrows.  You can, uh, track things.  And you know how to skin animals, and live in the woods." 

"Can buy fiberglass arrows and fresh meat at the motherfuckin' Walmart." 

"Could," she muttered. 

"Could," he repeated wryly. Then, after a few silent moments. "You're judgin' from where yer'at now.  Ain't talking about girls as they are now." 

"Oh, we're talkin' about _girls_ are we?" Beth teased lightly. Maybe the whiskey was a bad idea—he had gotten awful ornery and sad with the moonshine.  "An' so…  you haven't had a girlfriend since things got all… effed up?" She thought of Michonne. Of Carol. 

He squinted at her, mouth pulling into a frown. "Nah _,_ course I haven't had a… you even listenin'?" His voice dipped meanly, "You're the one with the _boyfriends_ and the…" he made an obscene gesture with his hands and muttered, " _Fuckin'_." 

Beth reared back, pick catching on the bottom E string with an indignant twang. "I ain't never _fucked_ nobody, Daryl Dixon!  And don't you say I did." 

He blinked at her, face softening into the look she'd come to recognize as shame; it made him seem like a sorry little boy.  He'd gotten it the first time after they'd just escaped the prison, mouthing off about her father. 

Beth glared at him. 

He muttered quietly, "Wasn't callin' you a whore or nothin'.  Even if you… 'S not bad.  Never've thought so." 

She sighed. "But it makes you angry?" 

"No," he growled. 

Beth rolled her eyes. 

"It's the romance—it makes me sick to my fuckin' stomach.  All cute an' shit.  Don't reckon I'm made for it.  For understandin' it." 

Beth stared at him. "Y'mean like, what, roses and chocolate or somethin'?" 

"Nah, like pretty folks smiling at each other, all, all perfect—no booze, not high, not hopin' she's some easy… Nah, jus' makin' eyes, the way Dixon men ain't never done, an' with girls we sure as _hell_ ain't never done." 

Beth held his gaze until he twitched.  "Just 'cause you're not Jimmy or Zach or… I dunno, like Glenn with Maggie, it don't mean that you're your dad or your brother." 

Daryl jerked violently, mouth twisting into a snarl. "What the hell do you even know?!" 

 _Darn it._ Beth rolled her eyes, strings twanging off-key under her hands. "I know you." 

"You don' _know_ me!" Daryl swung to his feet. "You still don’t. We burn down some shack, kill some geeks, I keep you from gettin' raped, and what, now you're an expert?! You don' know _shit_." 

Beth slapped her chair in exasperation. "What do I know? I know that you're angry 'cause you're confused!  Somethin' happens, somethin' gets said, somethin' human and _real_ , and it turns your head somethin' awful.  I see it catch you, all 'cause they never—an' you know what I know, Daryl Dixon?  I know that it's gosh darn _fucked_ that the way the world is now is more familiar to you than talkin' to another person about love, about you being loved and you lovin' them." 

His eyes went wild. "Don' love you, never said I fuckin' loved you!" he snarled, rearing away and slamming the whiskey bottle onto the end-table with a sharp clatter. 

Beth flinched. "I didn't mean—"  

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, you don't know what the hell I am—want'a know how it was? Me drunk off my ass and still a scared little pussy, girls with daisy dukes cut higher than a fuckin' thong, lettin' me touch their tits and get my cock in 'em just 'cause Merle had the crystal or benzos they wanted.  They weren't good, there weren't no _love_ , not some spoiled little farm girl singin' Goddamn Taylor motherfuckin' Swift.  The best one? The prettiest? Merle's ex when he was locked up for possession, and I was… Christ, I was so fuckin' _stupid_. _That's_ what I know'a love, Beth Greene. Ain't nothin' at all." 

"Daryl," she tried, swallowing. 

"What?" He snarled. When she said nothing, he snatched up his jacket and vest and the whiskey. "Gonna go make sure there ain't any Walkers in the Goddamn barn." 

Beth sighed raggedly as the screened door slammed behind him, her fingers tight on the neck of the guitar.  

 

* 

 

Beth checked out the rest of the house while he was gone, finding nothing but stale air and dust in the upstairs rooms.  She was curled up and dozing on the couch some hours later when she heard the screened door squeak.  "Daryl?" she called softly. 

"Yeh." 

"C'mere." 

He slowly came into the moonlit living room, head bent and holding his crossbow in front of him like a shield. 

"Sit next to me." 

"Beth. I'm—" 

"Come sit." 

He sat. 

Beth pulled his bow from him and put it quietly on the carpet, and then she took a deep breath to rally her courage, thankful only wan moonlight lit the room.  She took his hands.  They were warm and rough with calluses and they twitched around hers. "You been drinkin'? 

"… Nah. Left it on the porch an'… walked." 

Beth nodded, blinking a few times to calm her nerves.  "Look.  I don't… don't know everythin' about you, and never will.  An' you won't know all there's to know 'bout me. But I do know that whoever's told you you're a bad man was wrong."  She held on as he tried to pull away, as she expected him to. She demanded, "Do you think I'm a liar?" 

He twitched, before finally admitting, "No." 

"Good. Then you listen up. They were _wrong_. You're a good man. You were my dad's friend. Rick's friend, Glenn's—Maggie's. You're my friend. I ain't friends with worthless folks.  I ain't gonna follow one around.  I ain't gonna trust or respect one.  That man you killed in the general store?  That was a bad man.  The drunk who beat his kid with a belt?" He jerked, and she held on. "That's a bad man. But Daryl Dixon? He ain't. He might not have felt a lot'a love and he might be real shitty to a lot'a people 'cause of that mouth of his, but he's a decent man.  Got it?" 

It was a long few moments, but finally he ducked his head deeper. "It's not so easy as all that." 

"I know. But I'll help, okay? We gotta be like a family, like it was at the prison, gotta trust each other…  or it's not… not gonna work and we’ll die or we’ll live but it won’t be worth anythin’.  So… You can teach me bowhuntin' and, and cussin' and taking shots'a moonshine and stayin' alive, and I'll teach the parts you don't know, okay?" 

He chuckled softly. "I was real awful in school." 

"I'm really not surprised.  That’s what I wanted to be, though—before.  A teacher." Beth scooted closer and slowly leant in to kiss his cheek. She lingered a moment, caught in surprise by the feel of the coarse cut of his beard on her lips. "There's lesson one," she whispered, meeting his eyes with a warm smile. 

Daryl's face was so close, and he was staring at her, staring so directly that Beth could see the faint light catching on the whites of his eyes.  Something twisted and shivered in her stomach, and her hands gripped reflexively around his fingers.  

He slowly bent towards her, still watching, and Beth's eyes squeezed shut against his gaze. 

Daryl's lips were dry and warm on the hollow of her cheek, and as fleeting as a butterfly landing and lifting away… touching, but only just.  His nose brushed along her cheekbone toward her ear.  He inhaled roughly, "How's'at?" 

Beth opened her eyes, blinking into the dark.    

His hands were trembling a little in hers, and something tightened and ached in her heart. 

"Real…" she breathed.  "Real sweet. See?  Y'did great."  Except, suddenly, Beth wasn't sure what the lesson was. 

"Y'forgive me then? Bein' such a jackass." Daryl's forehead was still pressed against the side of her head, his nose in her hair. "Mouthin' off at you." 

 _Maybe he'd lied about the whiskey. Maybe…_  

Something felt like it was warming and melting a little, somewhere in her body.  Beth nodded vaguely, not knowing what was happening, not sure why it was getting harder to breathe. "'Course I do. You're always kinda a jackass, besides.  I'm pretty used to it." 

"Yeah. Sorry." His voice was a low, deep grumble that sort of just… vibrated through her. 

Daryl untangled one of his hands from hers and slung his arm around her shoulders, scooting her roughly and somewhat awkwardly into his side.  Beth settled against him and stared unseeingly into the darkened room, heart thudding a steady rhythm in her head and belly. _Family_ , she'd wanted family, but she'd expected something different… different than what she'd felt slither through her with the way he'd stared and the way he'd just pushed his nose into her hair and _breathed_.  

He smelled of old sweat and blood and leather; familiar smells. Her fingers curled into his shirt. The warmth underneath seeped into her fingertips as she pressed just— 

Beth started as Daryl's head jerked.  He muttered, "'M about to pass out. There a bed in this place?" 

 _A bed_. 

"Upstairs." Beth whispered, her stomach doing nervous flips.  She slipped along behind him as he blocked the door with a chair and staggered upstairs. He seemed different… looked different to her.   Confused, she dropped her eyes from the strong, lean shape of his body to the safe, familiar lines of his crossbow.  

Lines of steel and wood and feathers. 

Daryl slept as he always did—on his back with his boots on, knife on his chest.  But this time, he cast his left arm out just a few inches further until it brushed her hip where it was buried under the quilt. 

Beth held herself still, hyper-aware of that glancing touch, and stared at him in the dark once he'd fallen to sleep.  She stared at his face, at his knuckles and fingers, at the steady rise and fall of his chest. Something new and terrifying swirled and sank inside her, settling into a sweet, warm ache between her legs. 

"Well, shit," she muttered, turning to stare at the ceiling as her cheeks flushed hotly and the muscles in her thighs tightened. 

Daryl hummed and shifted at the noise, pinky twitching against her side as his hand flexed.

  

**

*

 

A/N: "Love Story," by Taylor Swift. I'm not a fan, but I figure our Beth might've been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed this little jaunt (/tease). I love writing characters talking to each other, doing stuff, sassing, discovering each other. I set this story in the early autumn - I was going to check into whether that is even remotely canon, but couldn't be bothered. x


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